7 Days Out Before Paris Day
Part 3 of 3 of the roller coaster of embarking on a new life after 50.
(If you haven’t read: Part 1: 90 Days Out From Leaving Los Angeles for Paris
and Part 2: 30 Days Out: “Are You Excited About Paris Yet?”)
November 16, 2021 was Paris Day, the day I was leaving my long life in Los Angeles and moving to Paris with Maddey my cat for good.
I’d been tackling all the intricacies of preparing for P-Day the way I typically approach the logistics of making a film as a First Assistant Director. 90 days out, however, P-Day still felt like a pipe dream. Even 30 days out, my brain was still not fully convinced I was going. Oh, and covid—which was throwing everything out of whack. All the unknowns resulting from new covid revelations meant anything in life was up in the air. So, two weeks from my liberation from America —P minus 14 — the following big-ticket items remained on the board:
- shoving my entire life in five boxes
- storing, selling, giving, or throwing away what didn’t make the cut for Paris
- preparing Maddey: obtaining a USDA certificate for international travel and preparing her for the twelve-hour flight from L.A. to Paris
- continuing my L.A. Farewell Tour
- setting up required French administrative procedures upon arriving in Paris
- reconciling all domestic accounts (phone, car insurance, address change, etc.)
Simultaneously, I was still maintaining my normal activities through all of this upheaval as they were all key factors to building a sustaining foundation of my Paris life: writing freelance pieces, building my fledgling creative coaching practice, and also training for future tennis tournaments.
I was navigating all of it entangled in a smorgasbord of emotions. Grief and sentimentality in leaving my L.A. hometown. Crushing heartbreak from a bad breakup with my girlfriend Sarah back in April. Resentment, anguish and utter confusion over the complexities of my mom dying in July after six months in a vegetative state.
I wasn’t Emily in Paris where everything goes swimmingly. I was a Filipino-American going to Paris — being Filipino anywhere doesn’t go swimmingly, even in the Philippines. Being Filipino could be a factor in my new hometown. It might not. It was a factor in vanilla America. Why not French vanilla Paris?
Even with the superpower of rolling with the punches honed by my career in filmmaking logistics (I ran film sets), fending off the anxiety generated from the unknown of starting my life over in a foreign country was tough. Living in Paris for three months in 2016 and two months in 2018 gave me a strong taste for Parisien life, but I was coming to realize that permanently living there was a different beast altogether especially budgeted to live a minimum wage lifestyle for at least a year in one of the most expensive cities in the world until I could find my feet. I was obsessed about avoiding unknown surprises that could take costly bites out of my derriere and send me right back to America.
Add covid.
A French Dress Rehearsal in Hollywood
I shoehorned a week-long French film festival called COLCOA (City of Lights — City of Angels) held at the Directors Guild of America (DGA) headquarters. Everything on the to-do list would take a back seat, bien sûr, while I indulged in French films, French people and French food for a whole week, but I couldn’t resist a sublime opportunity to jumpstart my transition to Paris. Besides, DGA headquarters was the epicenter of my professional career. At the very least, it deserved a proper farewell.
Antoine, my Parisien buddy and newbie Los Angeleno, was my wingman at COLCOA. All week long, beaucoup fromage, sancerre, café au lait, and beignets as I immersed in the French language through French films such as Eiffel and trying to mingle with all the French folks. I tested my French with Nicolas Maury (Hervé on the Netflix comedy Call My Agent) who was at COLCOA for a movie he directed. I asked him a question in French about his directing approach. He was polite enough to suffer through it. Sensing he was in a rush, I panicked and reverted to English. In a French accent.
Mingling among some of the French people who were behaving so extra because this was a Hollywood soirée reminded Antoine that he left Paris because the people and the vibe had dramatically changed for the worse. I noted the ironic similarity of swapping L.A. for Paris for similar reasons, to which he said, “I really hope it will be different for you. You will see.”
When you say, you will see, are you warning me or being neutrally hopeful? I asked. Antoine shrugged off a definite answer.
On the last day of COLCOA, we were on Sunset Boulevard, in front of DGA headquarters. Backlit by a classic L.A. sunset, I recounted my struggles with the French administration. “Bah, oui. C’est comme ça,” he said, punctuated by another shrug, that in this instance meant, “That’s what I mean.”
Paris minus 7: One Week Left Before My Flight to Paris
COLCOA was a good call, but quand même, with six days remaining, everything was accelerating exponentially. The screws were tightening. I’d go in and out of a clear presence of mind over the logistics, like a broken auto-focus on a digital camera. Emotionally raw, I’d get triggered by who knows what.
I’d be on the 405 Freeway, for example, triggered by lyrics of a song while zooming down the fast lane at 75 mph. I’d lose it, tears gushing down my face for five minutes. I could be cathartically happy that Paris was finally in hand. Sometimes, I’d be missing Sarah. Or perhaps I’d think about my mom passing. Google said I may have also been recovering from post-project depression after the intense ordeal of obtaining my profession libérale visa a few weeks ago. Anyway, just as soon as the tears stopped, I’d have my game face back on. Madness.
Getting my visa was phase one. Moving to Paris was the second phase. The third phase involved the practicalities of living in Paris. Now that P-Day was fast approaching, I had to allocate some of my attention to phase three, which meant scouring the internet researching mundane tasks such as validating my visa in France, registering my coaching business in the French system, establishing a bank account, acquiring a Carte Vitale (for health insurance), getting a French phone number, and generating revenue with my coaching business. Just as important for my sanity and well-being, I’d need to find a tennis community to return to a regular training schedule.
I wasn’t Emily in Paris where everything goes swimmingly. I was a Filipino-American going to Paris — being Filipino anywhere doesn’t go swimmingly, even in the Philippines. Being Filipino could be a factor in my new hometown. It might not. It was a factor in vanilla America. Why not French vanilla Paris?
Getting Maddey Ready for Paris
For weeks I’d have a recurring nightmare in which a nonplussed Inspector Clouseau-like customs officer denies Maddey entrance into France because of an invalid USDA health certificate. Another one entailed carrying her through the metal detector, when Maddey slips out of my grasp and bee-lines toward the far end of the terminal never to be found again.
Early Tuesday morning, I took Maddey for her physical to continue the health certificate process. Everything had to be timed precisely. Per France, the certificate couldn’t be endorsed by the US Department of Agriculture more than 10 days before my flight, which meant the only vet appointment within this ten window was four business days before my flight, which meant that after the vet electronically sent the certificate to the USDA office, presumably in the last three remaining business days before P-Day, a USDA employee would receive the certificate, endorse it, them mail me the physical copy. No certificate? No Maddey on the plane.
Packing My Life in Five Boxes
Managing three large pieces of luggage, three large square boxes AND carrying Maddey through two busy international airports seemed like a logistical nightmare, so I paid $450 for a service called Send My Bag to pick up and ship the boxes to Paris.
Send My Bag reviews were mixed. Some expats commented that everything went off perfectly, but I also read reports they might not show up on the arranged pick-up day or the boxes could be held up at customs for reasons like packing too many items with lithium batteries (TSA only permitted one) or packing prescription bottles (forbidden). The boxes might break in transit, or they could get delivered to the wrong address.
“Just follow the instructions to the T, and it will be fine,” an expat on Facebook wrote me. “To the T.”
Reducing my entire life to five boxes overwhelmed me, so weeks ago, to trick my brain, I started making piles of things marked for Paris in a strategically nonchalant manner. Well, I was being so nonchalant about it that I found myself still surrounded by small piles of my life all over the garage the night before the boxes were slated to be picked up. I didn’t finish until 4AM. Maybe it was stupid to go to COLCOA after all.
As I printed the shipping labels, I discovered that FedEx, who had recently traumatized me in delivering my visa, was doing the pick up. Send My Bag was merely the middleman. Anticipating likely FedEx shenanigans, I re-packed, pulling anything from the boxes that I’d need to access within seven days after arriving in Paris. I finally went to bed at 5AM.
Paris minus 6
Wednesday, 9AM. I left the boxes outside my townhouse gate (the gate phone didn’t work) with an obvious sign instructing FedEx to call me so I could hand the driver a duplicate copy of the paperwork — as per the instructions to the T. They took the boxes, (sweet!) but didn’t call me (grrrrr!), so because the instructions weren’t being followed to a T, I was left wondering whether to brace for the prospects of my boxes being held up or to assume everything was fine. As an assistant director in film and TV and a former Army officer, I’ve struggled with distinguishing between assuming and letting go. Assuming has never been a sound logistical assessment tactic but not letting go isn’t mentally sound either.
Instead, I pivoted my focus back to Maddey. I called and e-mailed the Los Angeles USDA office multiple times seeking confirmation they received the health certificate. Contact unsuccessful.
Melting under a ninety-five degree day and running on three hours of sleep, my nerves were shot. Then, Sarah, my ex, texted me. I thought about her everyday but hadn’t heard from her for months. She broke radio silence because she felt weird about not saying goodbye. (She didn’t feel weird about only leaving a text when I was leaving for good?) I pleaded for one last in-person goodbye. She didn’t respond.
A brutal Wednesday.
Paris minus 5
Thursday. It totally slipped past me that today was Veterans Day, so most official businesses were closed, including the USDA. I was still working, sorting out over 50 years of my life in the garage with less than four days before leaving America. Should I keep this love letter I wrote in eight grade? Does this old West Point uniform go to Goodwill, get thrown in the dumpster, or is it memorabilia to be stored…?
Paris minus 4
Sarah finally reached out. A sixty second video on the Marco Polo app was the best she could offer as a face-to-face goodbye. To see me in person would be a massive setback because she had worked so hard to move on with life without me. I sent back a long teary-eyed video, begging to see her. She reinstated her radio silence instead.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I crawled into bed next to Maddey for a little love. She didn’t want to deal with me either and scampered away.
Coming off another four hour night of sleep of many, I went into a coma.
Two hours later, Maddey pawed at my arm. I forgot about Maddey’s certificate! It was Friday; it still hadn’t arrived and Monday was the last day to receive it. Groggy and disoriented, I called the main USDA office in Sacramento. The phone kept ringing and ringing and ringing. Finally, someone picked up.
“Please, I need your help for this certificate to happen. I can’t go to Paris without Maddey,” I said. By this point, I was limping toward the finish line.
With assuring grace, she said, “Are you Vince?”
“YES!”
“I’m filling it out right now. It’ll go out to FedEx this afternoon and you should be getting it by Monday.” I felt a little relief…except, “Wait…Should? I need it by Monday. I’m flying out Tuesday morning,” I said. She reassured me that with FedEx on the case, she was “pretty sure” that I’d get it on Monday. Nothing like the words pretty sure and FedEx to alleviate my anxiety.
All I could do was let it go until Monday and go from there. I instinctively made that shrug that Antoine made at COLCOA. Every experience in my Paris move was like every French New Wave movie—bittersweet as f**k. Everything about France is never straightforward, that so often, you have no choice but to shrug, let it go, and say “c’est comme ça.” It’s like that. I had a strong feeling that in Paris, I’d be making this shrug more often. She was going to force me to learn how to let go.
I went to tennis practice later for a bit of release. It was my last day at Silva Tennis Academy, where, as the only adult tennis player in the Academy, I rediscovered how to pursue big dreams again inspired by my coach and the exuberance of my young teammates. Of course I cried. Some of them snickered as teenage monsters do at anything genuinely human. Though I suppose that witnessing a grown man cry who was probably a decade or so older than any of their fathers probably did feel bizarre.
I cried the entire forty-minute drive home. P-Day was coming hard and fast.(Honestly, maybe I should get my estrogen levels checked.)
That night, I went on a bit of a bender. Beaucoup sake and gin and tonics were consumed deep into the night.
Paris minus 3
During the move, I had not generally been feeling like I was winning. In fact, I was losing a tennis match Saturday morning when I received a text: “Hey man, I have your wallet. It was in the gutter and I saw it as I was getting in the Uber.”
What the hell was I thinking, going on that bender?!? My covid vaccination card and the credit cards I’d need for Paris were in that wallet. Losing my wallet would have been devastating. But for some reason, I could only laugh about it. What was done was done. I shrugged and let it go, and went on to finish losing my tennis match.
I got my wallet back — fully intact.
I hoped I didn’t piss away all my luck on something so careless. I’d be relying on a lot of it to survive Paris.
Send My Bag sent me a notification on my phone confirming that my beloved U2 books, favorite spatula, 1988 Dodger jersey, microphone, ten pairs of shoes (duh, I’m Filipino), blender, and label maker were headed to Paris!
Saturday night, I threw a Celebration of Life gathering at a restaurant appropriately called Bon Vivant, hanging with friends and telling stories from various parts of my life. A perfect way to punctuate my farewell and solid proof that one should have their Celebration of Life when alive, not at their funeral.
Funny how shit can go from stormy to sunny in a blink of an eye.
But I had to check myself. Maddey’s certificate was still on the board.
Paris minus 1
9AM Monday morning. Just over twenty-fours before P-Day.
Instead of allocating these precious hours to finish packing my suitcases, I sat outside the gated fence with my childhood pal Ruthie, having mimosas as we waited for the FedEx driver. No way I was going to let them claim they showed up and couldn’t reach me like they had with my visa.
Three mimosas later, the driver finally arrived at 1130AM and voila, Maddey’s endorsed certificate was in my hand. Finally able to ease off the gas pedal, I screamed toward the sky. Then we went to In and Out Burger to celebrate.
That night, I took Maddey to the actual airport terminal for her final dress rehearsal. I put her in the velcro harness and leash she’d wear on P-Day, wrapping the harness around her like aluminum foil covering a Dodger dog. I took Maddey out of her carrier to get a read on her, hoping she wouldn’t go cat berserk and slip from my grasp.
She was pensive but not one bit skittish.
It was all falling into place. Unbelievable. But I had one final matter.
I hadn’t spent enough time with my 95-year-old grandma, so I took my last hours in America to be with her. We didn’t have a scintillating conversation. She can’t speak English. I can’t speak Filipino. She had never had any romantic love since I had known her. She had been acrimonious with my mom — her daughter — up until mom suffered her stroke and rendered permanently unresponsive. And now her only grandson was leaving her too. I hugged her tightly and told her I loved her. She knew those words. I was sad to leave her but I couldn’t stay. Staying in America was literally killing me.
A friend later told me, “You can come back. It’s not like you’re leaving forever.” Sure, anything’s possible, I suppose.
Paris Day
Well, contradictory to every single thing I had read about transporting animals through LAX, the dull TSA agent didn’t let me keep the leash on Maddey while passing through the metal detector. (Why? Because I could be hiding bomb material inside the leash?) Having not rehearsed the metal detector portion, I was planning on the leash to alleviate my nightmares about Maddey escaping me.
I kissed her little face and held her tight like a football as we passed through the detector and past the anxious travelers, then beelined to the conveyor belt where, as soon as her carrier emerged from the x-ray housing, I shoved Maddey inside of it as fast as I could and zipped up the flap before she could even think about slipping away. Not my best Cat Dad move, but with my nightmares averted, we were headed to our boarding gate.
As the plane ascended, I put a reassuring hand on Maddey’s head (she was in the carrier tucked under the seat) and looked out the window to watch my old hometown Los Angeles and my past life slowly disappear underneath the clouds. I closed my eyes and whispered to myself: “We did it, Vinnie.”
Starting over at fifty-two has been — and is — madness. What kind of madness was Noah feeling as his ark headed toward the horizon without a road map knowing The Flood was about to swallow up all that he left behind, I wondered.
A flood of cathartic tears surged out of me. It was November 2016, after the presidential election, when I had first envisioned a Paris move. A tumultuous five years later, sparked by the breakup with Sarah, on November 16, 2021, Maddey and I were on Air France flight AF065 headed for our new lives. Despite five years of extreme and unfamiliar challenges, the move inevitably worked out — like making a film always does. I have to remember another lesson: everything inevitably works out.
I’m jumping into the uncharted waters of Paris life — my experiment to be authentically me. I wasn’t me for so much of my life. (Drinking the kool-aid of the American Dream didn’t help.) Surely, dragons await. Starting anew at 52 will be white knuckle exhilarating and frightful. I mean, I still have to get past customs with Maddey and in the taxi. My bags could get lost. Lord knows when my boxes will arrive. Old habits will reawaken and disrupt my path. Oh, and covid.
“Let it go, Vinnie,” I told myself. “We’re headed home at last.”
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